A Midsummer Tight's Dream (17 page)

But she kept on walking alongside me.

“What did you do, Oirish, did you do some of your special dahnsing to the village boys’ band??”

And she and Dav laughed. She put her arm around me and squeezed my shoulder and said, “Just joshing, Oirish, what did you do?”

I said, “We danced and, you know, chatted and …”

She said, “Ooohhh, have you been talking to boys, have you now? Any fella you’ve got your eye on? One of those naughty The Jones boys, is it? Or—no, I bet it’s one of those lads from Woolfe.”

What did she know? Had someone told her something? Had one of the boys from Woolfe said, “Charlie snogged Tallulah, and she was useless at it”? Maybe Charlie had told Jack and he’d told bat Ben and all of Woolfe Academy knew.

But Lav just said, “Was, er, Alex around at the dance at all? I’ve got a great idea for
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
—it’s a sound poem with gongs.”

I said, “What do the gongs do?”

And she laughed.

“Oooh, Tallulah, begorrah, begorrah.” And pinched my cheeks and said, “Keep smiling.”

I wish she would take her imaginary hands off Mr. Dream Boy. And off me.

Everyone was worried about what was going to happen to Dother Hall.

Jo said, “What if Phil does manage to get himself back to Woolfe and then I get sent home?”

And Vaisey said, “Jack may never carry my handbag again.”

It was all so sad. Flossie said that Sidone and Monty and the rest of the staff had been away over the weekend and got back very late on Sunday and that Bob had been in charge.

Vaisey said, “He was in his studio playing loud rock music. When he came out he said, ‘This is a bum rap, like when Iron Butterfly split, the pain was enormous.’”

I wonder what had been going on. Was there a plan to save Dother Hall?

I soooo hope so.

We went into assembly and for once everyone was talking quietly.

We fell silent as Sidone walked onto the stage, followed by Monty, Blaise Fox, and Dr. Lightowler. Gudrun came on last, with what looked like a roll of wallpaper.

I said to Vaisey, “Now is not the time for decorating.”

Sidone was dressed in sports casual. She was wearing jogging trousers and an England shirt. Her hair was poking out of a cap that had a visor but no top that Americans often wear and I don’t really know why. Perhaps their heads are hotter than ours because of global warming.

Sidone started speaking very clearly and loudly, “Girls. Last Thursday, known as Black Thursday, we were in a state of despair. Our feet were bleeding, our hearts were leaking tears, and tiny sobs were cascading from our souls.”

She came forward to the lip of the stage, then she paused. She held her fist in front of her.

“But we rally. We carry on. Because …”

And she burst into song.

“‘There’s no people like show people, we smile when we are down …’”

She started swaying, so did Monty. As she sang, we all started swaying. Swaying was catching.

“‘Everything about us is appealing, everything the censor will allow …’”

At the end she waved her hand at Gudrun.

Gudrun didn’t notice at first because she was sniffling and swaying so much, then said, “Oh yes, good yes, it’s me, oh yes, rightio.”

And tripped over a chair leg. Then she staggered on with the enormous roll of wallpaper and taped it to the back wall.

It said in big red letters:

We shall not, we shall not be moved!

Everyone went, “Hip, hip, hurray!!! For she’s a jolly good fellow …” and Flossie started a sing-along version of “Sailing, we are sailing!!!”

Sidone waited for quiet.

“The thing is, my girls, we must go on—not just for us, not just for the showbiz world but for our own community. They need us in Heckmondwhite. In Skipley. In Blubberhouses.”

We looked at each other. Yes, I think we had a good idea of how we were needed in Heckmondwhite and Skipley and Blubberhouses. And at The Blind Pig.

Sidone went on. “I want all of you to think of spreading the word: Save Dother Hall. Some of you could entertain the shoppers in Skipley with songs. Or a mime piece on the village green? Clowns juggling with tinned produce in the post office. Think of the fun, girls. Get your thinking caps on. Mr. de Courcy has a splendid idea for market day that he wants to show us.”

Monty smiled and walked offstage. He was taking off his favorite tweed jacket and undoing the buttons on his trousers. I said to the girls, “Mary Mother of God, he’s not going to do a fund-raising stripathon, is he? The village lads will tear him apart.”

Jo said, “It’s not a bad idea. He won’t get any money for taking his clothes off but I bet a load of people would give him money to put them back on!” And we sniggered.

Sidone said, “I am sure you will have many bright ideas of your own, my little stars. And Mr. Barraclough at The Blind Pig will be more than happy to have a performance in his pub.”

Monty hove back into view. In his dance tights. He began tap-dancing and singing to “If you go down to the woods today you’re sure of a big surprise.”

Oh holy angel Gabriel and all his cohort!

As we filed out, Flossie said to me, “Yes, Tallulah, do you remember what larks we had, when we last performed at The Blind Pig? When you were a little horsie and you were so good, weren’t you, that Mr. Barraclough still offers you apples.”

At home time, Flossie, Vaisey, Jo, and I pretended we were popping down to Heckmondwhite to get some good-bye jammy dodgers whilst Honey packed. But we had the jammy dodgers already! We were really making up a tribute song to Honey in the music studio.

After about half an hour of practice, Flossie said, “Er, Lullah, I’m not being mean or anything, but can you just play the tambourine?”

Walking home, I was talking to myself to keep warm.

“So, in conclusion, I have accidentally got into a performing arts college, hooray, and then just as I was chugging along on the showbiz express of life it has crashed into an unexpected otter. Boo. But there is a plan, to get the showbiz express back on track. Hooray! And do you know what that is? We’re going to improvise
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
in The Blind Pig, in tights, and go into the village and let the village folk laugh at us in our tights. And the Bottomly sisters and the village girls who already hate us will have a field day hating us and laughing at us in our tights.

“Then as a coup d’état Alex will turn up and see me in my tights and that will be the end of my life. And then Dother Hall will be closed down anyway.”

Oh noooooo. Booooooo.

I
T MUST BE SOMETHING
to do with the harsh weather conditions but I have woken up with Northern grit. I may wear a short-sleeved T-shirt today. I wrote in my Darkly Demanding Damson Diary:

Even though all the fund-raising plans are mad, at least we’re doing something. We’re fighting back. We’re fighting for our slippers.

All right I can’t sing or act or dance or—well anything—but maybe I can do an owl-based performance. Yes, yes, I can train Lullah and Ruby to do something. A “guess how much poo an owlet can poo in ten minutes” competition.

Or I could put different hats or wigs on them as famous historical figures.

The hats would have to be little. A little pirate’s hat or a Cleopatra wig. Dibdobs could knit them.

Or Matilda could tap-dance on a tin tray. I could make the tappy noises with castanets. That should make a few quid before she fell off the tray.

More ideas later.

I’m going to pop down to see the owlets after school for inspiration, and I’ll call for my fun-sized mate Ruby. Connie, the mother owl, will be out night hunting. I hope. I definitely don’t want a repeat of what happened when Alex came with me to see them, and Connie swooped down unexpectedly from the barn roof. And I leapt onto Alex’s back. Like a mad turtle shell.

Hang on a minute. Actually, perhaps I do want a repeat incident of that.

Me on his back. Mmmmmmm Alex.

Me and Alex. The turtle and his shell.

And anyway, when he next sees me, he will find me greatly changed. Changed in a way that makes him think, “Yum yum.” Rather than, “Crikey, I’ve got a shell on my back.”

I’m going to write down what might happen when we next meet.

I will be sitting on a tree felled by lightning. Wearing my new winter shorts with new three-quarter over-the-knee socks, reading a book of poetry.

It is by me.

Reading aloud my latest poem.

No, no, not a fat fig. A tall tangerine? Hmmmm.

I am lost to the world. Unaware I am being observed.

My long, black, silky hair tumbles softly, flicked by the prevailing North wind.

Alex watches from the trees, in his frilly shirt and breeches. Then a rude, coarse, red-faced man huffs into view.

It is Ted Barraclough. He says to me in his coarse voice, “This bloody wind is from Russia, the Russkies do it on purpose to spoil my curry nights on Fridays. They know that folk won’t turn out when there’s a cold wind blowing. And stop flicking your hair about, you daft lad.”

But I think he talks rubbish.

I don’t think Ted Barraclough even knows which direction Russia is in.

Crude, coarse Ted leaves and it is then that I notice Alex crouching in the undergrowth.

I am struck dumb by the sudden surging of old familiar feelings.

I know he is at his fine, fancy theater college, but I see he is still wearing the breeches I know so well.

His flouncy white shirt open to the waist.

He runs to me and takes me in his arms. I close my eyes, it is too much, I am melting, I am melting, and he says softly, “Hello. We is here, wiv our bumbums out.”

I opened my bedroom door.

There they were, the mad twins, naked from the waist down.

Looking at me.

Oh goodie.

I can’t believe that Honey is actually leaving. Because of all the Dother Hall business, I haven’t really thought about it properly. The Hollywood people are sending a car to pick her up and take her to the airport today!

How can you kiss the back of someone’s leg and then they just leave? I suppose people might call it calf love. (That’s one for my diary.)

I’ve written her a good-bye letter. With a proper ink pen and some paper that Harold made. It’s got pressed flowers embedded in it so it looks special. It says:

Dear Honey,

I am so sad you’re going away to the City of the Angels or Los Angeles as some people call it who have no art and theater in their veins. It will suit you to live in the City of Angels because of your golden hair and your honeyness.

Anyway, I just wanted to say I will never forget you, and perhaps when I do my world-famous Irish dancing tour, I will get to visit you in your luxury beach apartment. Because I just know you are going to the tippy top of the toppermost. You were always going to be a star, but also you are one of the nicest girls I have ever met.

And a true pal.

Good-bye, Honey,

I promise I will keep up all you taught me about my inner glowee and be proud of my knees.